


Things Unsaid

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, During Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-04
Updated: 2006-10-04
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:55:36
Rating: Teen & Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8695531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Six connected drabbles about the things Sam and Dean don't say to each other.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Things Unsaid  
Author: Kali  
Rating: PG13  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Word count: 600  
Summary: Six connected drabbles about the things Sam and Dean don't say to each other.  
Notes: As always, comments and con crits are loved. I'm on a drabble binge so, again, any prompts/requests, feel free ^_^  
  
  
Dean winces as Dad tells Sam to never come back. It is pretty much the only thing guaranteed to make Sam leave, and he isn’t surprised when Sam grabs his bags and storms out. Dean follows him without thinking about it, suddenly finding himself outside in the cold night air. Sam stops but doesn’t turn around, shoulders hunched and head bowed.  
  
“Are you really gonna do this?” His voice isn’t as hard as he wants, there’s a faint tremble that he hates.  
  
_Are you really gonna leave me?_  
  
Sam winces, glad Dean can’t see it. “I have to.”  
  
_I’m sorry._  
  
\---  
  
Sam’s visions come with migranes now, blinding pain that he can’t escape no matter how much he tries, or how many pills he takes. He huddles in bed, hiding under the blankets, and doesn’t open his eyes even for a second because even with the blinds closed, it hurts. Sometimes he whimpers, a pititful, half-swallowed sound. Dean curls up behind him, plastered against his back, and runs a soothing hand up and down his side. He places a gentle kiss on Sam’s shoulder, lips brushing over sweat-slick skin and eliciting a shiver.  
  
_It’s alright. I’m here. I won’t leave you._  
  
\--  
  
“Dammit, Dean, how could you go after that thing by yourself? You know how fucking dangerous it is, you should’ve fucking waited for me!” He jerks the bandage tightly, and Dean hisses in pain.  
  
“Watch it, Sammy!”  
  
“My name’s Sam, you jackass, and if you wanted any compassion you shouldn’t have run after that thing! So sit still and shut the fuck up.”  
  
Dean huffs in annoyance and pulls on his shirt, grimacing again as the movement pulls at his wounds. “I killed it, didn’t I?”  
  
“That’s not the point and you fucking know it!”  
  
_I was scared for you._  
  
\--  
  
Sam can’t help but flinch away when Dean tries to touch him. He hates himself for it, especially when he sees the faint flicker of pain in Dean’s eyes. Dean turns away and Sam moves before he can think twice, grabbing his wrist and spinning him around. The kiss is hard and rough, edged with pain and relief and a million other things. Dean tangles one hand in Sam’s hair, puts the other on his hip and holds him in place as he trails kisses along his jaw and down his throat.  
  
_It wasn’t me. I would never hurt you._  
  
\--  
  
Sam’s first Christmas at Stanford, he spends the day studying, burying himself in law texts and trying to ignore the sounds from outside, people laughing and joking and, occasionally, throwing up. He doesn’t see the point in partying, has never celebrated the holiday, and is therefore surprised when a small brown package shows up on his doorstep. It’s a hunting knife, long and curved and wickedly sharp, and a picture too. It’s Mom, happy and smiling, proudly holding up a chocolate cake. There’s no note, and Sam puts the picture in his pocket, the knife under his pillow.  
  
_Thank you._  
  
\--  
  
Sam stares up at the looming building, unable to move his feet. He wants to walk forward, go into that building and pick up the forms and go back to his normal, his safe, life. But Dean’s standing by his side, glaring at his feet, and Sam can’t make himself move. He’s not sure how long they stand there, but then he sighs and climbs back into the car. He doesn’t see Dean’s happy-relieved grin, but he knows it’s there. He closes his eyes when Dean starts the car, doesn’t look back.  
  
_You and me, always._  
  
We belong together, forever.


End file.
